


Under the Weather

by etamiss



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 16:16:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3902707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etamiss/pseuds/etamiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian is a hypochondriac but also actually sick. Bull is of limited help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Weather

"Not to cause any undue alarm," Dorian says weakly, "but I may be dying."

"Oh?" Bull's ankle aches when he toes his boot off and he bends to work the brace off the other as he asks, "Is it pneumonia or rabies this time?"

"Such wit," Dorian mutters but his tone is less scathing than it could be. "Is there nothing in your Qun about mocking the afflicted?"

"Of course there is," Bull says seriously. "It's strongly encouraged."

He chuckles at Dorian's groan. More than willing to give Dorian the attention he's so clearly seeking, Bull unbuckles his harness but pauses when he sees Dorian's robes in a crumpled pile at the bottom of the bed. His boots are strewn in opposite corners of the room -- kicked off then, not pulled -- and the selection of books and scrolls normally worn on his hip are balanced precariously on the corner of Bull's storage chest.

"Huh."

"I am not an intriguing form of plant-life," Dorian says. "Do not 'huh' at me."

"Hmm," Bull says instead, pointedly. Despite the growing knot of worry in his chest, he smiles at Dorian's huff of protest.

Dorian shifts position in bed with a moan of unhappiness while Bull switches to his sleep pants and lobs his day's clothes into the laundry pile. A sprinkling of water-worn pebbles dusts the floor along the arc of the throw, a lingering reminder of the three Dorian-less days he spent in Crestwood, but Bull is quick to relegate that to the list of tomorrow's problems when he approaches the bed.

Dorian's skin is clammy, his eyes ringed with red and half-closed as he tucks himself up under the covers, but something else catches Bull's attention above the line of the blankets. 

"Is that my shirt?"

"I have a fever," Dorian says by way of an answer. "I sweat."

"And you needed to do that on my shirt?"

"Your shirt is accustomed to it," he says, tiredness sapping his sarcasm. "Besides, I was sure to use an old one."

It _is_ an old one, Bull notices, one he's had since his time in Orlais. Krem maintains that it's actually some frilly Orlesian furniture decoration rather than clothing designed to be worn by a person but after trimming off the worst of the ruffles, Bull decided it was too comfortable to be discarded.

However, while he can attest to the comfort, he can also confirm just how much it smells.

Not to human senses -- he doubts Dorian would've gone near it otherwise -- but as he approaches the bed, Bull can smell himself all over Dorian. His scent is plastered to every inch of his chest, his throat, his thighs, everywhere Dorian's sweat has made the shirt cling to his skin, and Bull can't help but wonder if Dorian's worn anything but his shirt since he left.

As tempting as it is to hold him down and map out the claim that's already daubed across Dorian's body, he fights to tamp down his arousal. Dorian's assertions of fragility are often just him angling to be tied, spanked and fucked until he can't remember his own name, let alone his alleged ailment, but as he burrows deeper into the bed with a groan, Bull soon realises that this is very different.

"Yes," Dorian says tiredly, "please do continue to gape at me. I find it very helpful."

Bull rolls his eye, ignoring the phantom twinge in the empty socket, and moves around to the other side of the bed. His palm all but covers Dorian's eyes when he puts his hand to his forehead but he hums in disapproval at the warmth of Dorian's skin. "You do have a fever."

"Did I not just say that?" Dorian mutters. "Am I suddenly mute as well as bed-ridden?"

Despite his grumpiness, he doesn't pull away when the manhandling continues. The motions are easy, the near-dormant muscle memory of checking over the younger kids in his unit, and while a grouchy, full-grown Vint is a long way removed from a small, scowling qunari, Bull's seen enough sickness to know what he's looking for.

Dorian is surprisingly placid, letting himself be adjusted and manoeuvred as Bull checks his heartbeat and breathing. He lets out a displeased huff when Bull pushes his fingers under his jaw to feel his glands but his protests slide away as Bull coaxes his mouth open to examine his throat.

With Stitches taking care of the Chargers, it's been a while since Bull's done this. Nonetheless, it's familiar in more ways than one to have someone relax under his hands, willing and docile and trusting fully in him to fix it.

Even when it's nothing serious.

"Looks like it's just flu."

" _Just_?" Dorian narrows his eyes. "As someone who raises things from the dead professionally, I am very aware of what death feels like. Currently it feels like me."

Bull grins. "Good to see you're not being overdramatic about this. I was concerned for a while."

Slumping back down, Dorian grumbles something into his pillow but Bull only gives him a moment to stew before he eases himself into bed beside him. The cushioned mattress dips under his weight, with gravity (and most likely a little personal preference) rolling Dorian backwards until it's Bull's chest that he's complaining into instead.

"I'm unwell," Dorian mumbles. "I deserve the bed."

"I don't know," Bull teases, "from here it looks like you're already forsaking the bed in favour of sleeping on me."

Dorian groans but makes no attempt to move away as he slings a leg over Bull's thigh, Bull's too-big shirt ruching at his hip. He's warm all the way down, skin flushed with fever and Bull's scent covering him more effectively than the stolen shirt ever could, and he lets out a sleepy, content sound when Bull kisses his forehead.

Dorian's hair is damp when Bull runs his thumb through it and he waits for the last tiny crinkle between Dorian's brows to smooth out before he asks, "When did this start?"

"What, my having hair?"

Dorian's voice is slurred and Bull smiles fondly. "Your flu."

Dorian gives a feeble little shrug. "Two days. Three."

Bull thinks back to his early morning departure to Crestwood, replays their conversation and kiss again and again and again until he's certain that the signs were there, just overlooked. He's Tal-Vashoth now; he's slipping.

"And you've been here this whole time?" he asks. "Not the infirmary?"

From the sound that escapes him, death would have been a better suggestion.

"Not the infirmary," Bull answers for him. "Did one of the healers check up on you at least?"

"Potentially?" Dorian hazards. "I recall someone helped with the vomiting. Possibly Cole. Or Madame de Fer. There was a hat involved."

"A hat?" Bull plumps for levity over outright concern when he says, "I guess that narrows it down to the whole of Orlais."

Dorian makes a dismissive noise against his chest. "There was a copious amount of vomit. You'll have to excuse my lapse in observation."

It doesn't make Bull feel any better -- 'a copious amount of vomit' isn't the most reassuring phrase -- and he tucks Dorian in closer, resting one hand on the worn fabric of his shirt as he strokes his hair. "I'm back now. I'll look after you."

Dorian glances up at him. It's clearly a struggle for him to keep his eyes open but he does manage a slight quirk of one eyebrow when he says, "Oh, so now there's sympathy?"

"You mean when you're actually sick?" Bull smiles and kisses him again. "That is how these things usually work, yes."

"I wouldn't know," Dorian murmurs. 

He seems to be concentrating on pressing as much of his cheek to Bull's chest as he possibly can and Bull ignores the familiar stirrings of protectiveness as he scritches Dorian's head with his blunted nails. 

"Get some sleep," he says, voice low. "I'll be here if you need me."

"Hmm," Dorian says coherently as his eyes drift closed. He slings his arm across Bull's chest, fingers just reaching far enough to brush the sheets on the other side, and Bull allows the demanding jaws of guilt to gnaw further through him as he watches Dorian fall asleep.

He should've picked up on it that morning, should've spotted even the most minor signs, should've _been here_ instead of miles away in some demon-infested lake. He's been the keystone for the Chargers for years now, the cracked, crumbling block keeping them all standing, but he'll have to find a new balancing act if he wants to shoulder that weight for Dorian too.

It's a role that'll take some getting used to but as Dorian snuffles quietly, one delicate strand of drool trailing down from his lips to Bull's chest, Bull finds that he's actually looking forward to adapting.


End file.
